Dead Wood Part 17

We said our good-byes and I hung up. What a p.i.s.ser. Two guys with nothing in common hanging out in prison together. Both get out and one tries to kill me while the other one is being killed and possibly framed for the murder of Jesse Barre. So was it Gra.s.so who killed Jesse? Why? Did he have some score to settle with Coltraine and was Jesse just in the wrong place at the wrong time? That didn't make sense. After all, Jesse was building a guitar for Gra.s.so's ex-wife. Somehow the two were connected. Maybe Coltraine was in on it with Gra.s.so. Maybe Coltraine really did kill Jesse. Maybe he wanted one of her guitars for recording purposes, knew he couldn't afford one, and killed her for it. And then maybe he stole Shannon's guitar and Gra.s.so went and ripped off his old prison mate. It didn't sound too convincing. And if I wasn't convinced I knew Ellen wouldn't be, either.

I started to get a headache. Too much thinking did that to me.

Still, the idea that I was closing in, that I was just a connection or two away from cracking this thing, got my blood going. It was time to find Laurence f.u.c.king Gra.s.so. Since my sister hadn't called I figured she wasn't having any luck.

But I had an idea.

I could rule out all the things my sister would be checking on. Past acquaintances. Family. Places of employment. Former landlords. The cops would check out the logical places. Whether or not they would have any luck, I had no idea. So far, Shannon Sparrow's s.h.i.+t-for-brains ex had proven to be crude but effective.

There was really only one place I might have an edge.

And that was the non-logical aspect of the hunt for Laurence Gra.s.so. I tried to put myself in his shoes. I'm out of prison. I'm running around causing the kind of trouble I love to create. It's what I do. For some reason, I'm sticking around. I'm not running off to Canada. So there's still something I need. I've got to stay close, but can't go entirely underground.

Where would I be?

My mind grazed over everything I'd learned about Mr. Gra.s.so. I thought back to what Joe Puhy had said, what the police record had shown, and what I knew about him from when he'd chased me and tried to kill me.

I wondered if he would try to go back to Shannon Sparrow. No chance. She wouldn't have anything to do with him at this point in her life. Still, it would have to be pretty powerful for a guy like that. To think he'd once been married to, had slept with, had shared everything with someone who is now a celebrity. Who's now on the covers of half the magazines in the world.

It reminded me of a joke. A guy and Cindy Crawford are stranded on a deserted island. After a long time, they start sleeping together. They do anything and everything, s.e.xually speaking, exhausting all possible positions and breaking every taboo known to man. Finally, one day, Cindy says to the guy, whatever you want, whatever your greatest fantasy is, I'll do it. So the guy has her put on a hat and one of his s.h.i.+rts. He then sidles up next to her and whispers, "Dude, I'm sleeping with Cindy Crawford!"

Ill.u.s.trative of the minds of many men. I had the feeling that Gra.s.so was mean and violent, but also arrogant. It made sense he might want to spend a little time gloating over the 'good old days.'

So where would he go to revel in his past, yet still feel safe? I dug around for the stack of articles I'd used to study up on Shannon. After a half hour or so, I finally found the one in which she admitted being abused, where she opened up a little bit about her first marriage.

I skipped down to the section I was interested in. "I met him at a bad time in my life," she said in the article. "I was dancing at this hole called The Lucky Strike."

The name didn't ring a bell with me. It had probably gone through a few dozen name changes since then. But it was obviously a place Gra.s.so had frequented in the past. Why wouldn't he go down there now and see if he could find anyone who might remember Shannon? Maybe buy 'em a beer and start bragging about how he'd bedded the great Shannon Sparrow.

Flimsy, I know. But there's video of Cuban refugees making it to Miami in boats even less st.u.r.dy than my big idea.

What the h.e.l.l.

I was sure the Lucky Strike would be worth the effort.

I don't consider it any kind of n.o.ble statement to say that I've never been a big fan of strip clubs. Or t.i.tty bars as the boys like to call them. As a young man, I'd been to my fair share of them. Gotten the ol' b.o.o.bs-slapped-in-the-face treatment. Nothing high and mighty about it. I still notice if an attractive woman walks by.

All these lofty thoughts were on my mind when I pulled up against the curb just past the Lucky Strike. As it turned out, the club wasn't actually called the Lucky Strike. There just happened to be a giant plastic Lucky Strikes sign, probably from the 50's or so, hanging above it. It didn't look like the club itself had a name. Like the vast majority of clubs in Detroit, it was located on 8 Mile Rd, the great divider between the city of Detroit and the suburbs to the north. It also happened to be a few doors down from a giant Home Depot and a Burger King. Nice. Stick dollar bills in G-strings then swing next door for sandpaper and a bucket of paint, followed by some chicken wings and fries.

I locked up the Sunbird, thinking that only a moron would steal it. But I didn't want to have to walk home just because I'd run up against a thief with no sense of style.

The door was heavy, wooden and painted red. I pulled it open, worried about the germs that probably coated the handle, having been grasped by a group of men who would buy ten dollar, watered-down beers for the chance to watch a naked teenager dance. Occupational hazard, I told myself, trying not to think what these guys do with their hands.

Inside was a beautiful marble foyer with a long mahogany bar and waiters in tuxedoes. Kidding, of course. It was actually just what you'd expect. A stage running down the middle of the place with a bar at one end and a curtain at the other. Small groups of tables surrounded the runway, with some chairs right up against it for those fifty yard line kind of spots. For the guys who like to get right in on the action.

There was a girl dancing on the stage. She had on a fishnet body stocking, or what was left of it, anyway. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s poked out of two holes and sat unnaturally high. Judging by the three or four guys who sat watching her, they probably didn't care if they were looking at a plastic surgeon's handiwork. I moved to the end of room where the bar was and ordered a beer in a bottle. Six bucks. Ah, that good ol' naked girl surcharge.

When you get right down to it, there are only so many ways to try to get information from a place like this. You can stake it out over the course of a few days or even a couple weeks, and try to learn something that way. Or you can have an idea of who your target is ahead of time and watch for him or her. Or you can walk in blindly and start asking questions. You can guess which path made sense to me. I didn't have time for a two-week stakeout. And even though I knew who I was after, I didn't think Gra.s.so would be so stupid as to just hang out somewhere in the open.

The dancer was really working her stuff on the stage to the incongruous tune of Olivia Newton-John's 'Let's Get Physical.' As I watched the fishnetted youngster on stage bend over and grab her ankles, I figured the Australian singer didn't exactly have this kind of imagery in mind when she composed the feisty little ditty.

I hadn't touched my beer and understood immediately that I wouldn't be putting my mouth on anything in this bar, unlike the four hundred pound guy waving a dollar bill at the dancer hovering over him.

Before I'd left the police station, I'd made a copy of Gra.s.so's mug shot. I'd had to do it without Ellen noticing, but old habits die hard and it'd been easy to go around behind her back.

The bartender was a goofy-looking guy. He reminded me of guys I'd gone to high school with that were easy going and fun, but you knew would never really do much with their lives. I waved him over and showed him the computer printout of Laurence Gra.s.so's mug shot.

"I'm trying to track down a buddy of mine. Larry Gra.s.so. Do you know him?"

Without looking at the picture, he said, "You a cop?"

I shook my head. "Flunked out of the Academy," I said.

He barely glanced at the picture and I knew what the answer would be. "Never seen him," he said.

"Is there anyone else here I can show the picture to?"

"Why you lookin' for him?"

"I'm a P.I.," I said. "His sister hired me to find him. Their mother died and they need to settle the estate. It's not much, but they can't do it until Larry's contacted."

The bartender shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Clearly, I was on my own.

I pushed my beer back and walked around the bar to a door marked with the single word "Office." The bartender watched me and started to say something, but I knocked on the door quickly and when I heard a voice say 'f.u.c.k off!' I went right in.

There was a woman behind the desk with big blonde hair. I couldn't see her face because it was buried in the crotch of a thin black girl sitting spread eagled on top of the desk.

"Oops," I said.

The black girl scrambled off the desk. The blonde wiped her mouth off on her forearm and stood up. She was a big gal.

I pulled out the picture of Gra.s.so and said, "I'm looking for Larry Gra.s.so. Do you recognize him?"

"Get out," the woman said, and her eyes flickered over my shoulder. I sensed movement behind me and ducked. Something crashed into the door and I pivoted, then reached up and caught the baseball bat under my arm. I swept my left hand up, slamming it into the bartender's elbow and I heard a satisfying pop. He let go of the bat, yelped a little and I flipped it around so it was in my hand. I rested it over my shoulder and winked at him. He glared at me and I used the bat like a cattle prod to herd him into the office where I could keep an eye on all three of them. I closed the door behind me.

"Boy, you guys have got a real customer service problem," I said.

"f.u.c.k you," the blonde said. The black girl hadn't moved.

I nodded to the black girl, "Employee of the Month, I a.s.sume?"

"Very funny," the blonde said. "What do you want?"

"Larry Gra.s.so."

"Never heard of him."

"Wanna think about it?" I said.

"No," the blonde said. "Jesus, I never heard of the guy." She looked at the bartender and he shook his head. To be honest, I couldn't tell if they were lying or not. Sometimes it's obvious. Sometimes you just don't know.

I thought about it. I could make some more empty threats or I could just cut my losses and thank G.o.d I wasn't wearing a Louisville Slugger tattoo on my temple.

"Thanks for the souvenir," I said, opening the door and stepping out into the club. The same girl was dancing and the same customers were staring at her. Breathing through their mouths.

I walked outside, feeling a little silly carrying a baseball bat on my shoulder like I was about to start hitting flyb.a.l.l.s for outfielder practice. Something told me I wasn't doing this right. Whether or not they knew Gra.s.so was moot. They were clearly the type that didn't want to tell anyone anything. I thought about what I'd done, maybe I should have come up with a better story. I popped the trunk and threw the bat inside. Who knew when it might come in handy?

I backed the Sunbird out of the spot and was about to turn out of the parking lot when I saw a flutter of movement off to my left. I looked. At the back of the building was the skinny black girl and she was waving at me. I drove around and pulled up next to her. She leaned in.

"I'll tell you where he is for five hundred bucks."

I pulled out my wallet and counted. "I've got three hundred and sixty."

Her face was thin. Her eyes haunted. She was clearly on drugs. Malnourished. Desperate.

I held the money out to her and when she reached for it, I pulled it back.

"He's in a house on Barrington with a dancer named Ginger," she said. I remembered when Nate gave me the address from the black Nova's registration, it had been in a woman's name. The name wasn't Ginger, though. It was something plain like Mindy or Missy. Melissa. That was it. Melissa.

"Is Ginger's real name Melissa?"

She gave me a look like I was certifiable.

"No real names, I get it," I said.

"Do you know the address?" I said. "Roughly?"

Her eyes took on a strange look and I said, "If you don't know, don't lie."

She nodded then said, "All's I remember is it's got a front porch with a refrigerator on it."

I handed her the money. She took it and her face took on a flush, already antic.i.p.ating the drugs.

"Don't even think of calling them to tell them I'm coming," I said. "Or I'll come back for a refund, do you know what I mean?" Actually, I had no intention of coming back but I had to at least make an attempt at the tough guy routine. Sober, she wouldn't buy it. Strung out like she was, she might consider it. Anyone who knew me, of course, would have doubled over with laughter.

She hurried away from the car and darted back into the building through the door. If the big blonde found out she'd given me the information, I was sure she would have her a.s.s. Literally.

But I had a lead.

Thirty-three.

Barrington was located on the southern end of Grosse Pointe, bordering Detroit. All the exciting stuff happened down here. You could take your mansions and your yacht clubs and everything else from Grosse Pointe proper, but it was down here in the area they called the Cabbage Patch that all the excitement went down. They called it the Cabbage Patch, by the way, because the homes are so packed together, like, you guessed it, heads of cabbage in a field. Grosse Pointers are sooo creative.

At first, when the stripper had told me to look for a porch with a fridge on it, I thought it'd be easy to spot. But now, driving down the s.h.i.+tty street, I see she should've been more specific. Was it a side-by-side? Automatic ice maker? Freezer on the bottom?

Plenty of bikes and chairs and tables and air conditioners and a car b.u.mper and a body (sleeping I hoped) and plenty of dogs without leashes. Dogs without leashes. Sounded like a punk band.

I finally spotted a house with a lovely avocado colored Frigidaire on the front porch. I stopped the Sunbird well shy of the house and put it in Park then got out and walked up onto the front porch. The fridge was in worse shape than it looked from the street. There were garbage bags piled inside. There were more garbage bags on the floor of the porch. I saw that quite a few of the plastic bags had jagged holes chewed in them. Rats. Lovely.

The door was cheap and flimsy. Big surprise there. I thought about what to do. Legalities. Options. Should I call Ellen or not? What if she came and the house was an abandoned rathole?

I thought some more and pressed my ear to the door. I didn't hear a thing. I pressed the doorbell but didn't hear any corresponding sound. I pressed it twice more with the same lack of result. So I pounded on the door for a good three or four minutes. Still nothing.

G.o.dd.a.m.nit. By now, I was about to p.i.s.s my pants. I pounded on the door again and noticed that when I hit it really hard, the latch came all the way out from the door. Hmm. I leaned my shoulder into it and now I could get a thin glimpse of the room. Already, I saw a story formulating in my mind. Indefatigable P.I. checks out a lead. Walks up the front porch stairs, trips, crashes into the door which opens up. He "accidentally" finds himself inside the house! Frickin' brilliant!

Excuse in hand, I lowered my shoulder to the c.r.a.p-a.s.s poplar frame and plowed my way forward. There was a loud pop and a crack and the door gave way. I stumbled straight into the living room and the working end of a .357, held in the firm, unwavering hand of none other than Laurence Gra.s.so.

"You took long enough you little f.u.c.king punk," he said.

He'd changed his appearance from his mug shot. Bleached hair, a bleached goatee. But it was the same guy. The same little predatory weasel eyes, coupled now with breath reeking of cheap wine.

"You just keep comin', don't ya?" he said.

"Like a fly with a nose for s.h.i.+t."

He pulled back the hammer on his revolver. If I had to guess from the aroma of his breath, he'd been partaking in a local wine, probably a merlot. A 2003, perhaps.

"You know what a punk is?" he said.

"Kill him and let's go," a woman's voice said from the kitchen. I didn't know what startled me more, the voice, or the utter lack of emotion it carried. Unlike me, Gra.s.so paid the advice no attention whatsoever. He was focused on me.

"Let's go," the woman said again. Wherever she was, I couldn't see her. I didn't recognize the voice. The calm authority, the bored indifference in her tone, however, was unmistakable. I was more scared of the person attached to that voice than I was of the ex-convict with the gun pressed to my forehead. Which isn't to say I wasn't scared. Quite the contrary, actually.

Gra.s.so moved around behind me, sliding the muzzle of the gun across my forehead and around my scalp, like he was tracing the line of a bowl to give me a haircut. He stopped behind me and then I felt his forearm go around my throat. He pressed in against me and either he had a screwdriver in his front pocket or something very bad was going to happen to me.

"I used to f.u.c.k guys like you in prison," he said.

"I'm married," I said.

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit, we don't have time for this," the woman in the kitchen said. "He probably called the cops already."

I tried to see, leaning forward slightly and looking from the corner of my eye. All I could see was a doorway and a kitchen cabinet and countertop. I heard the sound of a chain lock sliding, then a deadbolt thrown. She was definitely getting ready to leave. I hoped Gra.s.so would follow her example. Quickly.

I craned forward a little more and the left side of my face exploded in pain as Gra.s.so used the barrel of the gun as the working end of a karate chop to my face. "Don't worry about her," Gra.s.so said. "Worry about me."